


Perpendicular

by LandOfMistAndSecrets



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Childhood Friends, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Silver Snow Route
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-22
Updated: 2019-09-22
Packaged: 2020-10-25 22:30:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20731736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LandOfMistAndSecrets/pseuds/LandOfMistAndSecrets
Summary: It's only with the benefit of hindsight that we can see the way the decisions we make in the moment dictate the paths we end up on down the line.(Linhardt & Caspar, from the academy to the war to whatever comes next.)





	Perpendicular

**Author's Note:**

> Significant spoilers for the Black Eagles Church Route/Silver Snow.

When it first became apparent that the sounds in the near distance were those of battle, Linhardt had very seriously considered throwing in the towel. It would have been easy, at that point, to turn on his heel and put the high towers of Garreg Mach at his back for good. He was his parents’ only heir; they would gladly accept whatever flimsy story he came up with to explain his sudden disappearance and welcome him back into the fold. 

And most likely ensure he never went unsupervised ever again.

Cresting that last hill put him on the edges of the once-bustling town at the foot of monastery, and from there, the situation quickly sharpened into focus. Namely: thieves. Lots and lots of thieves. 

Oh, and their professor, back from the dead. 

And then there was Caspar. 

Linhardt hadn’t _actually_ expected him to be there. Judging from the woefully sporadic and far too brief letters Caspar sent, he had spent the majority of the prior five years fighting in mercenary companies across the Kingdom and Alliance, _against_ the Empire, a full fledged traitor long before Linhardt had ever seriously considered turning his coat. Mostly. He’d never have turned Caspar in, even if he’d known his exact location, which he supposed was technically a bit of light treason in of itself. Still, he doubted Edelgard would ever have held that against him. 

But, indeed, a flash of blue, a familiar, manic sort of laugh, and Linhardt was running toward him before he even realized exactly what he was doing, his old academy instincts taking over. Logically, Caspar had learned a little self preservation since they’d last seen each other. It was entirely illogical to expect he couldn’t handle himself without supervision, any longer, and yet he pressed on. He turned a corner, crouching beneath an arrow-studded outcropping, drawing perilously near the sounds of fighting -- and then there he was, swinging an axe tipped with monstrously massive blade.

This, of course, was stained with all manner of blood and viscera, and Linhardt thought to himself -- _ah, lovely_ \-- in distant, detached fashion, his heart pounding in his ears. His stomach twisted and gave a little warning churn, and then Caspar skidded to a halt and they locked eyes across a crumbling corridor that had once been a bustling promenade. 

“Linhardt?!” Caspar gasped, eyes wide. 

Linhardt gave him a sheepish smile and a halfhearted wave. There were corpses slumped against the walls, he realized. Or at least… pieces. He sighed. 

“I suppose I have you to thank for all this,” he said, gesturing. His voice remained remarkably steady. 

Caspar grinned. He’d grown, Linhardt thought, stepping closer. Quite a bit, actually. It added to the sense of utter unreality assaulting him, filling in the fine lines around the warped, stretched edges of his vision. Was this actually Caspar, or was it some taller, more handsome doppelganger, about to cut him down with his massive, bloody axe?

“That’s right,” Caspar said, and Linhardt actually startled back a step before he realized that he was responding to his actual spoken observation and not his scrabbling, intrusive thoughts. “I think you’ll find that I’m a _whole_ lot stronger, now, and --” 

“That’s nice,” Linhardt interrupted him, urgently. He felt a little bad about it, he truly did, but the battlefield was going a little fuzzy. “I think I’m going to pass out. Do me a favor, and don’t let me die, all right?” 

He had the distinct, amusing pleasure of seeing Caspar’s eyes widen in apparent alarm, and then he pitched over with no further fanfare, bonelessly into the dirt. 

*

Caspar didn’t let him die. 

In fact, he heard from several sources much later on that he’d tossed his axe aside and carried Linhardt’s blissfully unconscious body through open field and arrow fire, all the way to the safety of the monastery and its high, impassive walls. 

Apparently he’d learned to be a hero in truth, somewhere down the line. 

Linhardt woke in the infirmary, long after the fighting had ended, and for one short, disorienting moment he was sixteen again, and the world was small and simple and ripe with possibility. Then recollection came crashing in and ruined everything. He was a fugitive, now, he remembered, not a student, and for all his time enrolled in Garreg Mach he’d reverted right back to passing out in the midst of battle. He was hopeless, really. 

“Hey,” Caspar’s voice sounded at his side. “You awake? How’s your head? It looked like you hit it pretty hard on your way down, there.” 

He turned to look. 

Caspar peered at him with a face that was simultaneously strange and familiar, and he discovered with mounting distress that he hadn’t imagined his first impression at all -- he had, at some point, become rather devastatingly handsome. Even moreso, actually, now that he wasn’t swinging an enormous bloody axe around.

“You cut your hair,” he said. 

Caspar flushed. He raised his hands and ran them through the longer bits, back and forth, mussing it all up. “Yeah,” he said, with a little shrug. “You, uh. Did the opposite, huh?” 

Linhardt raised a self conscious hand to his own head, wincing. It was a mess up there, he was certain. “It looks a bit better when I haven’t just pitched over face first on a battlefield,” he assured him. “Really.” 

“No, no, it looks good now!” Caspar said, and then he seemed to realize how it sounded, because the blush on his cheeks deepened from sunrise pink to sunset red, and it was really rather adorable, Linhardt thought. “I mean, uh -- I mean, you know what I mean,” Caspar gestured, vaguely, ducking his head.

“Oh, do I?”

“Yes!” he insisted. “Anyway, forget about that! I was asking about your head, not your hair! How are you feeling, huh?” 

“Terrible,” Linhardt confirmed, dropping his head back against the inadequate pillows with a sigh. “Though, I am glad that you’re here. And that our professor is alive, after all. It really was a whole class reunion, wasn’t it? Mostly whole. How unexpected.” 

“If it was so unexpected, how come you showed up?” 

“You know, I… don’t fully know, myself. Temporary insanity? Wishful thinking? A misplaced sense of obligation? A growing concern that my parents might put me on the front lines, eventually, after all?” He frowned, narrowing his eyes. “What about you?” 

Caspar shrugged. He seemed to be studying his face quite intently. “I just… remembered our promise, that’s all,” he said. “I wasn’t sure you would, but I hoped…” 

Linhardt let his eyes open the rest of the way, frowning. “You came for me?” 

“I don’t know if I’d put it exactly like _that_,” Caspar said. “But I’m glad you’re here, too.” 

“Well, all right. I’m glad that’s settled, then,” Linhardt said, and then his jaw opened in a yawn so wide it cracked. He yanked the blankets up to his chin. “We are mutually glad. Wonderful. I’m going to try to sleep this headache off, if you don’t mind.” 

“Yeah…” Caspar said, uncharacteristically quiet. It occurred to Linhardt then that he had no idea how long he’d been asleep in the first place, and that Caspar had, quite possibly, been waiting by his bedside the entire time.

“You can go, if you want,” he clarified, peering at him. 

“Oh. Do you want me to go?” 

Linhardt frowned. “I didn’t say that,” he said. “I just can’t imagine it’s very interesting, watching me sleep. Tell the others I’ll meet them, soon. I just… need to gather my thoughts. And sleep off this abominable headache, as I said.” 

And Caspar, ever eager to help, stood with a short little nod. “I’ll let them know,” he said. “Don’t worry about it. You just feel better, okay?” 

“Sure,” Linhardt yawned, again, closing his eyes. “Will do.” He listened to the sound of Caspar’s retreating footfalls, and he was asleep before he even made it through the door. 

*

As it turned out, there was quite a lot to catch up on.

Their professor could shed no light on her long absence -- a fact that Linhardt couldn’t make sense of, no matter how open minded he strove to be -- but the rest of his former classmates had more substantial tales to tell. He knew some of them, already, but others were a surprise, and it was with no small amount of embarrassment that he realized whenever Caspar shared tales of his long mercenary excursions that he felt, well, a bit _jealous,_ actually.

There had been a moment, he recalled, before they’d parted ways. One of those little moments that had felt utterly insignificant at the time, but looking back, had served as a sort of lynchpin between two possible paths for his life, perfectly perpendicular to one another. 

Their professor had vanished, and Lady Rhea with her. The Knights of Seiros were in disarray. The monastery was held by imperial forces, and word had it that Caspar’s father was on his way to secure the stronghold as a strategic hub for the imminent war against the Kingdom. 

And Caspar had taken him aside, pale faced and sweating, and told him that he intended to run. 

He’d been strangely recalcitrant, but Linhardt had chalked that up to his fear of his father, and never questioned it. Now, he couldn’t help but wonder… had Caspar been hoping that he would volunteer to go with him? Had that strange, hovering silence that passed between him after his bold declaration been the space where Linhardt ought to have bet his entire future? Had he given up that opportunity without even realizing there had been a choice there to be debated at all? 

He wondered. 

It felt like a waste, now. All that time he’d spent at home, anxious and restless and miserable, wishing Caspar would write more often, wishing Edelgard would see sense, wishing his family would listen when he spoke, wishing and wishing and wishing only to end up throwing it all away, anyhow. 

If he’d just gone with Caspar from the start, maybe he might have found something more productive to do than argue with his parents and worry about his friends. 

Maybe the odd distance he felt when he and Caspar met gazes across the room now wouldn’t exist. 

Maybe they could have returned here together, and instead of frowning at the fire, lost in his own head, he could have been sitting up at the hearth beside him, already familiar with all of his ridiculous stories, because he’d been there for each and every one. 

It wasn’t like him to dwell on such things, but dwell he did, long and hard. 

*

There was still a war to worry about, of course. That, naturally, was vastly more important than any of his personal and mostly self contained crises. He grew accustomed once again to the sight of blood, the stench of battle, and the other assorted horrors of war. 

Off the battlefield, with his access to the library restored, he flitted from one topic of interest to another, always coming back around to Crests, eventually. It all came back around to Crests, eventually, he thought. He wished he’d had the opportunity to ask Edelgard why she _really_ hated them so deeply she was willing to drown them all in blood just for the chance to be rid of them. 

And the distance between him and Caspar lessened every day, until things were almost the way they had been before everything had gone to hell. Some days, with Caspar slumped half over him, skimming ancient texts he surely had no actual interest in over his shoulder, he could almost close his eyes and pretend nothing had ever changed in the first place. 

Almost. 

There was still the matter of his unfortunate, newfound attractiveness to muddle through. 

It wasn’t that he’d never been _interested_ in Caspar. He was self aware enough to know that if he’d ever caught even an inkling of reciprocation, he’d have acted on it in a moment. But Caspar had barely even seemed interested in _women_, let alone men, and he hadn’t wanted to cross that particular bridge without some guarantee that there was something worth crossing for waiting on the other side, and it had just been… easier, to let it pass unspoken. 

Not so, now. 

“Hey,” Caspar said, one afternoon, eyebrows arched, startling Linhardt out of a particularly long mental spiral wherein he’d wondered at embarrassing length what the short, shaved half of Caspar’s head would feel like under his fingertips. Coarse, or soft? Hm. 

“Yes?” he asked, absently, playing dumb. He’d been staring, and they both knew it. 

“Do I have something on my face?” Caspar punctuated this inquiry by dragging his hands over his cheeks, like he was searching for something, and Linhardt rolled his eyes even as he despaired at how appealingly adorable it all was. His preoccupation with this really was proving rather problematic, in the long term. If _Caspar_ was noticing, surely everyone else was, too. 

“Your face is fine,” Linhardt informed him, matter of factly.

“My hair, then?” Caspar pressed, running his hands through that, too. Linhardt’s fingers twitched. He really did want to know what it was like. He’d considered cutting his own hair… but then he’d have been robbing himself of the opportunity to observe how Caspar reacted to having his hair stroked. Besides, he didn’t want to. He liked his hair long. 

He made a considering sound. There was an opportunity here, maybe. 

“Your hair is also fine,” he said. “However…” 

“Uh oh.” 

“It’s nothing bad. I’ve just been wondering… how does it feel?” 

Caspar’s hands stilled. His brows knit, and then his entire face followed suit, crunching up into a mask of comical confusion. “What do you mean, how does it feel? My hair, you mean?” He dropped his hands back to his sides, looking properly bewildered. “It feels like hair.” 

“Come now, Caspar, you must know that the texture of hair varies greatly by length,” he said. “Do you really think yours would feel the same as, say, mine?” he shook his own out, letting it fall back over his shoulders and down his back. “I’m just curious, that’s all.” 

“Oh,” Caspar said. He bit his lip. He sometimes did that when he was nervous, Linhardt knew. “You can, um. Touch it, if you want? I don’t mind. You could have just asked anytime, you know!” 

“I didn’t think of that,” Linhardt admitted. “Asking, I mean.” He stood, then, with a little shrug. “Very well. Let me see.” 

Caspar scoffed at him, holding obediently still. “I don’t think it’s anything special,” he warned, watching warily as Linhardt lifted his hands and did the very thing he’d been daydreaming off and on about doing since he’d first reunited with him in that broken, crumbling promenade. 

Soft, mostly, he decided. A little greasy. Caspar really did need to bathe more often. He hummed quietly, pressing his fingertips against his scalp, watching Caspar’s face as he stroked gently through his hair. It did feel nice. Caspar just seemed -- baffled, mostly, but there was a definite blush, there, darkening by the moment. What did that mean? 

“Uh, Linhardt?” Caspar said, and Linhardt blinked down at him, meeting his eyes. His fingers were still and motionless, buried in Caspar’s hair, and he had a sudden and very vivid intrusive thought -- he could lean in, right now, press their lips together, and just… see what happened. Would Caspar lean into it, or jerk away from him? Would he reciprocate, or recoil in disgust? Would he ever look at him the same, afterward? 

“Yes, Caspar?” he asked, voice steady and bland and pleasant, pushing all those dangerous questions down. 

“What… are you doing?”

“Science, Caspar, do pay attention.” He slid his hands down out of his hair to cradle his cheeks, instead. Caspar’s face flushed deep from chin to forehead, his skin heating under Linhardt’s hands. Linhardt smiled. 

And dropped his hands. He couldn’t risk it. If he drove Caspar off, who could he depend on to carry him away from the battlefield if he fell, heedless of his own health and safety? It simply wasn’t practical. 

But his chest did hurt a little bit in the aftermath of that decision, logical though it was.

“Well,” Caspar said, pitched a little higher than usual. “Did you, ah, get all the data you needed, then?” His voice actually cracked a bit. 

“Yes, thank you,” Linhardt said. “It was very illuminating.” 

“I see. Well…” 

It was really too much. Linhardt was fairly sure that even _he_ was blushing, now, which spelled disaster for his own plausible deniability, start to finish. He made as though to turn and go, opening his mouth to offer some transparent excuse, but before he could speak, Caspar lunged forward and caught his arm, pulling him back. Whatever he’d been about to say crumbled away, forgotten.

“Caspar?” he said instead, stumbling toward him. He really was shockingly strong, these days.

“Hold on,” Caspar said, voice urgent. “Isn’t it only fair if it’s my turn, now?” 

“Your turn to… oh. Ah. Are you doing some research of your own?” 

“Sort of?” 

“Really.” 

Caspar’s cheeks puffed out, like a foraging squirrel’s. “Can I touch you, or not?” 

Linhardt laughed, quietly. “Well, of course you can,” he said. “You can touch me any time, Caspar. You hardly need to ask.” 

“I…” Caspar’s eyes widened. He shook his head. “Sometimes, Lin, the stuff you say…” 

“Well? Are you going to?” 

Caspar nodded, and then he stepped up and did just that, only not quite the same. He slid one hand behind Linhardt’s neck, and then he used the other to brush his hair out of his face, tucking it behind his ear all gently, tenderly, even, and it was all so very _romantic_, Linhardt could hardly stand it. He swallowed, hard. Reached forward, hesitantly, to rest his hands on Caspar’s waist, not quite meeting his eyes. 

“I’m curious to know what exactly your topic is,” he said. “Of research, I mean.” 

Caspar laughed, his fingers stilling in Linhardt’s hair. “I’ll tell you what. If I ever write a paper, I’ll call it something like, oh, I don’t know.” He sucked in a breath and stood ruler straight, puffing out his chest and deepening his voice. “An investigation into the question of how long it’s going to take before a couple of idiots finally just kiss each other, already.” 

“Oh,” Linhardt said, faintly. And then, a little firmer, “We both know you never will.” 

“You want to bet?” Caspar retorted, fiercely, and then he rolled up onto his toes and tightened his fingers in Linhardt’s hair, yanking him none too gently forward. 

It wasn’t the most elegant kiss, all things considered. It was a little messy, a little awkward, and Linhardt forgot to close his eyes, at first, so before long he was laughing against Caspar’s lips at the way his face pinched into deep furrows, especially between his eyebrows. Caspar let him go, glaring at him, and Linhardt balled his fingers up into the back of his shirt and leaned against him, shoulders shaking, laughter bubbling out of him along with great, gulping gasps. 

“Caspar,” he gasped, “What I meant was that we both know you’d never write a _paper_,” he clarified, when he found breath enough to speak. 

“_Oh_,” Caspar said, his glare evaporating instantaneously into something more like bashful chagrin. “Yeah, definitely not,” he agreed, and then he was laughing, too. 

*

There was more kissing, after that. More fighting, too, naturally, between their army and countless others, battlefields full of people hacking each other to pieces over petty differences of opinion because their leaders said so. Given the choice between those two things, kissing and killing, Linhardt greatly preferred to focus on the former. 

Their companions took to making knowing comments, here and there. Dorothea seemed especially smug, and though Linhardt refused her any details, he suspected Caspar wasn’t quite so adept at throwing her off. They took to sharing a room with one another -- it was just easier, that way -- and the comments got more bold, for a time, even if the things he and Caspar did together mostly stayed the same. A little extra groping, maybe. 

Linhardt didn’t mind the pace. He enjoyed actually just sleeping together just as much as he thought he’d enjoy, well, _sleeping together,_ in the more suggestive sense. 

Well. Almost just as much. 

But he could be patient. There _was_ an awful lot of kissing to tide him over, after all.

And then came Fort Merceus. 

Caspar was antsy on the march forward, worried about potentially meeting his father again, and Linhardt did his best to reassure him. Which wasn’t much, because in truth, he was worried about the exact same possibility. Count Bergliez was a formidable foe, and Linhardt didn’t exactly relish the thought of having to face him in battle. 

But the Count wasn’t there. Instead, it was Edelgard’s much storied Death Knight that greeted them, put up a token resistance, and then led them away from the fort completely, forcing them to pursue his retreating contingent in absolute certainty that they were being led full tilt into a trap. 

Only, it wasn’t a trap they were being led _into_, after all. Rather, the trap was what they were being led _out_ of, and what a devastating thing it was! Strange lights in the sky, flashing and winking, reflecting the sunlight, and then -- ringing ears, blurry vision, heat on his face that lingered long after the initial, explosive impact, and the fires burned low in the ruined crater of what had once been a proud, impregnable fortress. 

It had once been his and Caspar’s own personal playground, too. 

That night, they stood shoulder to shoulder some distance from the ruins, gazing back on the glowing embers. 

“You know,” Caspar said, quietly. “If things had been different, I would have been in there defending that fort when those lances fell.” 

“But you weren’t,” Linhardt said, firmly. “Things can only be what they are, Caspar. It’s pointless to wonder what might have been.” As though he hadn’t been doing the exact same thing, coming to the exact same conclusion, over and over again. Hell, if things had been just a little bit different, Linhardt might have been in there with him. 

“Do you think she would have done it?” Caspar asked, turning to face him with those big, wide, wounded eyes of his. “Let me die in there, just like that?” 

“Of course not,” Linhardt scoffed, with an emphatic sort of certainty he didn’t quite feel. He had no idea what Edelgard was capable of, anymore. “Her favorite Death Knight escaped, did he not?” 

“And those strange mages, too,” Caspar agreed. “But so many others -- Bergliez soldiers -- you _saw._ They all died in there, Linhardt. Like _that._” He made a fist with one hand, and slammed it against the open palm of his other. “She couldn’t even let them go down fighting! It isn’t right, you know? It’s just not right.” 

“I’m not entirely sure Edelgard is the one to blame,” he said. “But you’re right. Whoever is responsible… it’s an atrocity, no doubt about it.” He made a thin sound, humming faintly. “We used to play hide and seek in that fortress,” he said. “Do you remember?” 

Caspar snorted at him, dropping his hands, slumping his shoulders. “Of course I remember,” he said. “You used to find the best hiding spots, and take naps in them while I took _hours_ trying to find you.” 

His lips quirked up into a sad, fond little grin. “And yet, you always were glad to play another round.” 

Caspar nudged him with one shoulder and a little sigh. “I hate to say it, but I think I’m officially tired of this stupid war,” he muttered.

“Well. We’ll be in Enbarr, soon enough.” 

“Don’t remind me,” Caspar groaned, covering his face. He shook his head. “Don’t get me wrong. I’ll fight! Gladly, any time.” 

“Of course.” 

“...If my father wasn’t here, he’ll have to be _there_, won’t he? Enbarr?” Caspar ducked his head and made a despairing sound. “We’ll have to face him, eventually…” 

Linhardt stepped forward, and slipped an arm around him. “Let the professor deal with that,” he suggested. “It’s not your responsibility, even if he is your father.” 

Caspar straightened and shot him a grateful look, and Linhardt tried to pretend that his expression and their proximity didn’t make his insides all flutter, even now. “Thanks,” he said. “Hey. Do you want to…” he looked up, searching Linhardt’s face. His tongue poked out between his lips and ran over them, lightning quick. Nervous, then, and there was only really one thing that made Caspar visibly nervous, lately. 

“Are you propositioning me?” Linhardt blinked. “We’re a long way from our rooms at the monastery, you know.”

Never one to be deterred, Caspar shrugged with a performative sort of casualty that was entirely at odds with the flush creeping up his neck. “We’ve got a tent, though,” he said. “Or, maybe we could just find somewhere private, out there, somewhere…” he waved a hand at the trees around their camp. 

“And do what?” Linhardt asked, all feigned innocence. 

“You know,” Caspar said, turning to grab him by the waist. He pulled him close, and Linhardt stumbled forward, catching himself on Caspar’s shoulder. “Stuff.” 

“Stuff,” Linhardt repeated, with a little laugh. “Very evocative.” 

“Well what can I say, Linhardt, I’ve got a gift with words,” Caspar agreed. “Do you want to?” 

And Linhardt sighed. “You know I do,” he said, and though the admission was embarrassing, it was at least gratifying to see Caspar smile as he leaned in and tilted his chin up to kiss him. 

They were really getting much better at the kissing, Linhardt thought. Less teeth, more tongue, and just the right amount of tension in the fingers that slid up his side and the back of his neck and gripped into his hair, nice and tight. 

*

Their shared tent wasn’t exactly in the _middle_ of camp, but Linhardt wouldn’t have called it the outskirts, either. He could see faint shadows through the walls as people strode past, and he had to remind himself over and over again to be quiet, especially when Caspar pulled him into his lap and stuck his hands unceremoniously up under his shirt. Linhardt made a surprised sound, and Caspar took it correctly for encouragement, smoothing his palms all the way around to press flat and firm against his back. 

Linhardt broke their kiss with a wet, sloppy sort of sound, his face heating. “You could just take it off,” he said, just above a whisper.

“And what if we’re caught in a surprise attack, Linhardt?” Caspar challenged him, tracing his fingers up and down the line of his spine. “You want to end up fighting naked?” 

“In fact, I don’t especially want to fight at all,” he said, a bit heated. And then he deflated with a deep, defeated sigh. “But I suppose it would be particularly unpleasant to be caught out with no clothes on whatsoever….” 

“Exactly,” Caspar said, proudly, kissing him again. Linhardt leaned happily into it, hands on Caspar’s shoulders, parting his lips and humming approval into his mouth. He’d take what he could get. He slid one hand around to the back of Caspar’s neck, clinging to him, twisting around to settle in more comfortably over his legs. Caspar loosened his grip on him to let him arrange himself, and when he was more or less situated, Linhardt gripped his wrist with one hand and shoved his hand back up under his shirt. It really didn’t pay, being subtle with Caspar. Direct action was best. 

His calloused fingers flattened against Linhardt’s stomach, tracing lightly over his skin in little circles, and Linhardt squirmed eagerly against him, his breaths coming quicker, his body responding to the proceedings in all the expected ways. He was mostly used to it, now. Intellectually, it had always sounded messy, sweaty, vaguely unpleasant, but practical experience had proven that in the heat of the moment none of those things ever ended up mattering at all. All that mattered was Caspar’s mouth on his, the eager, messy slide of their tongues, the heat of his skin, those searching fingers still moving in lines and circles under his clothes. 

Until eventually, none of those things were quite enough. Linhardt drew back, panting. He was uncomfortably hard in his pants, and sitting here in Caspar’s lap the way he was, well, he could certainly tell their situations were similar! In all his fantasies, Caspar took the initiative… but he was willing to forgo perfect fantasy in favor of proceeding at all, he thought. 

“Something wrong?” Caspar whispered, his breath warm against Linhardt’s face. 

“Not at all,” he said. Direct action, he reminded himself. “However,” he added, taking firm hold of Caspar’s hand once more, “You should know that you’re an awful tease. Are you going to touch me, or not?” 

Caspar’s gaze shot down to their joined hands, and then swept a little lower, leaving absolutely no ambiguity as to whether he understood. Linhardt arched his eyebrows. Caspar dragged his eyes back up to his face. 

“You want me to?” he asked. 

“Yes, please,” Linhardt said, all polite patience, and Caspar ducked his head and made a sound that was half a laugh and half a wheeze… and then, blessedly, obediently, he moved his hand down Linhardt’s body to rest lightly over the obvious lump in his pants. 

“Here?” he clarified, needlessly. 

Linhardt pushed his hand down more firmly against him. “There,” he agreed, liking the heat it was all stirring in him, low in his belly. He gasped softly as Caspar palmed over him, pressing and squeezing and tracing his shape through his pants, and then he tilted his head back and let his lips fall open, a gratified little moan escaping between them. 

“_Sssh_,” Caspar warned him, though -- thankfully -- he didn’t stop. Linhardt hummed acknowledgement, and his next moan came out softer, quieter, but no less heartfelt for it. It really did feel good. He rocked his hips up and let out a surprised little laugh. 

“Imagine,” he panted, quietly. “_You_ telling _me_ to be quieter. I never would have thought.” 

Caspar grinned at him, and then, impishly, gave him a teasing little squeeze. Linhardt’s breath hitched, and his wiggled in his lap to open his legs a little further, encouraging. 

“I can be quiet,” Caspar insisted, whispering.

“Oh, can you? Is that a challenge, Caspar? I bet I could get you making noise.” 

“Okay, maybe that’s true, but -- do you _want_ to get caught?” he demanded, a little louder -- though still quiet, for Caspar.

“This is a private space,” Linhardt insisted. “People will just need to mind their business. Ah. A little faster, please.” 

Caspar blinked at him, and rather than heeding the request, lifted his hand off him, instead. Linhardt lifted his hips with a whining, protesting sound, chasing after his touch. Caspar grinned down at him, and then he moved his fingers to work the buttons and laces of Linhardt’s pants. This, Linhardt decided, was perfectly acceptable after all, and he leaned back over Caspar’s legs and propped himself up on his elbows to watch. 

“How’s this?” Caspar asked, softly, drawing him out into the open, wrapping his fingers tight around him. Linhardt let out a grateful little sigh, rocking himself up into his grip. He couldn’t help but notice the way Caspar’s face changed each time he did so, his body tensing under him as Linhardt squirmed and moved atop him, dragging himself against the hard line of his arousal below.

“A little more, and I may find myself willing to chance that surprise attack,” he said, breathlessly. Caspar laughed at that, flushed and grinning, eyes bright, and Linhardt gazed up at him, dragging his eyes over the fall of his hair, the line of his jaw, the sweat that trickled down the side of his face. He swallowed. “You really are rather handsome, you know,” he said, reaching up to brush his fingers down the side of his face, stopping at his chin. 

“You, too,” Caspar replied, and they were simple words, yes, but the way he spoke them, soft and sincere and embarrassed -- Linhardt flushed at that harder than he had when he’d reached for his laces. 

It was really far too romantic an accompaniment for what they were actually doing, Linhardt decided. So he pushed those softer feelings carefully aside, tossed his hair back, and made a sound of pure pleasure, focusing fully on the heat in his middle, the tightness in his belly, the sweet drag of Caspar’s fingers around his cock. Finally, he thought, shuddering as he let himself sink into it, let it crest over him like a wave. He heard Caspar’s sharp little intake of breath, felt _him_ twitch against him down below. Good. It was nice to know he could have such an immediate effect on him. 

“Faster,” Linhardt commanded him, laying back, letting his eyes flutter shut. He moved his hips at pace with Caspar’s fingers, rolling them lazily up and down, wiggling against the hard press of Caspar’s arousal beneath him. 

“Linhardt…” Caspar breathed, tightening his grip and quickening his pace. “You look so good,” he sighed. “Oh, damn…” 

He smiled. “You can do whatever you like to me, just so you know,” he said. “Anything at all. I can feel you down there, you know. You must want something, don’t you?” 

“Hell yeah, I do,” Caspar laughed. “I want so many things, I can barely even think straight! But mostly, I just want you, to, ah…” he trailed off, leaving only the rather obscene sound of his hand, squeezing him in long, firm, rhythmic strokes. 

“To…?” Linhardt cracked his eyes open, just a fraction. He was getting close, now, the heat and that tight feeling coiling together inside him, making him breathless and desperate for it. 

“You know,” Caspar said, voice strained. “To feel good,” he decided, delicately, shy to the end. 

Linhardt laughed, reaching up to squeeze Caspar’s arm with one hand. He threw his other arm up over his head, arching his back over Caspar’s legs, his amusement dissolving into breathless gasps and moans as he threw himself into it, the feeling, the anticipation, the hot, insistent _need_ burning through him. Caspar kept his pace, Linhardt rocked his hips, and when he felt the edge in reach he chased it eagerly. He covered his mouth with one hand and gasped his pleasure against his own palm, breath hitching as his body arched and seized and he spilled himself into Caspar’s hand. 

He melted backward, practically boneless in the aftermath. His breathing was heavy and labored, his heart hammered against his ribcage, and sweat trickled down his neck, behind his ears… ah. And of course, there was the mess he’d made down below. He summoned forth all the effort he had in him to lift his chin and look. 

Caspar was still holding him, his grip loose and gentle, and -- oh, he _did_ look smug! Linhardt snorted up at him. 

“Proud, are you?” he teased. 

Caspar met his eyes. “I want you so bad,” he breathed, and… ah. 

Ah. _Well._

He’d thought he’d been worked up before, but those simple words, that directly stated desire, it sent a _startling_ bolt of heat through him, right down to his overstimulated dick. He sat up, wincing at the way the lovely, languid feelings warred with the hotter, more urgent ones. Caspar let his cock fall limp against his thigh, and Linhardt squirmed off of him entirely, struggling up onto his knees, bracing himself on one of Caspar’s shoulders. 

Caspar just watched him, curiously, pupils dilated, breathing quick and shallow.

Linhardt swallowed once, hard, and leaned in to kiss him. 

It was a long, deep, lingering sort of affair, and midway through it he pushed Caspar firmly by the shoulders, leaning all his weight into it, encouraging him to lie back. It took some doing, and maybe a few muffled, laughing orders between kisses, but he _eventually_ complied, letting Linhardt settle comfortably atop him, braced over his body. 

“I wouldn’t get used to this, if I were you,” Linhardt warned him, speaking more or less directly into his ear. Caspar shivered beneath him, wrapping his arms around him, squeezing tight. “I don’t plan to do this much work _every_ time… or even very often.” He leaned in to kiss beneath his earlobe, and worked his way down his jawline toward his chin. 

“Just lucky today, then, I guess?”

“Very much so,” Linhardt agreed, shifting to press his lips against the side of Caspar’s neck, next. “Actually,” he murmured against his skin, “I think I understand. Fort Merceus. You know, when something really makes one consider their own mortality…” 

“That’s the _last_ thing I want to think about, right now!” 

“Ah, but you _are_ thinking about it, aren’t you?” Linhardt lifted his chin and gave him a stern look. “Of course you are. How could you not be? That place… it was like a second home, for me. It _was_ home, for you. It’s exactly as you said. If things were just a little different --” 

“But they’re _not,_” Caspar protested, his voice climbing just a little too high. Linhardt silenced him with a kiss. He went right on kissing him, too, until he felt Caspar relax again beneath him, his fingers sliding up into his hair, stroking through.

“I just mean,” Linhardt said, softly, “In times like these, you tend to think about the things you’d miss. The regrets you might have. The words you never said, the things you never did…” 

“I… yeah, I mean… I guess so?” 

“It’s all right, Caspar. I’m thinking about it, too.” He ducked his head and pressed his nose into his neck. “We really have wasted a great deal of time, haven’t we?” 

“It doesn’t matter,” Caspar said, tightening the fingers he had in Linhardt’s hair. “Because we’re not going to die here, and we’re not going to die in Enbarr, either. We’ve got the whole rest of our lives…” 

“Yes, but you’re a very reckless sort of man,” Linhardt laughed, resuming with his slow, lingering kisses, down the line of Caspar’s neck and into the dip of his shoulder. “And so am I, in my own particular way.” He made a considering sound, and then pushed Caspar’s shirt roughly up over his chest. Caspar released the hold he had on his hair, and Linhardt shimmied himself lower, kissing the center of his chest, working his way lower. “What I’d really like to do tonight is feel you inside me --” 

“_Lin,_” Caspar protested, weakly, and Linhardt laughed quietly at the desperate scandal in his tone.

“What’s the matter?” He grinned against his stomach, nuzzling absently into the hard, pleasing ridges of muscle, there. “It’s only the truth. But the thing is, I really do think I’d like to wait for that until we can both be just as loud as we want.” 

“You can’t just _say_ things like that,” Caspar groaned, covering his face. 

“I can, actually,” Linhardt retorted, and then he sat up, took a deep breath, and reached for Caspar’s laces. Caspar made a desperate sound against his own palms… and then he opened his legs a little wider, quietly inviting more. “You really do need to get used to hearing me say them, Caspar. And I’d like if you felt more comfortable saying them, too. Do you still want me?” 

“_Yes,_” Caspar said, emphatically. “Hell yes, I do.” 

Linhardt pressed a kiss just above the buttons at his waist, liking the way he shivered beneath him. Then he popped those buttons free and pulled his pants open, reaching in under his smallclothes to draw him out, at last. Caspar let out a wordless and rather adorable little squeak as Linhardt ran his fingers consideringly down his length. He’d known what to expect, of course, but feeling him with those layers of clothing between them was really quite different from holding him here, like this, skin to skin. He drew his thumb over the tip, noting the moisture already collecting there, and Caspar made another desperate, breathy noise. He still had his hands over his face. 

Well. That was all right. He didn’t _have_ to watch. In fact, logically, it was a lot less embarrassing if he didn’t. 

...Ah. Hm. But even so, he couldn’t deny that a part of him wanted Caspar to watch him do this, quite desperately. 

“Caspar,” he said. 

“Linhardt…” 

“Look at me, will you?” He was blushing before the words even left his mouth, but he stuck stubbornly to them, face burning, watching eagerly as Caspar’s chest rose and fell in a great big deep sigh. He lifted himself up onto his elbows and looked warily down to meet his eyes. “I don’t mind doing this for you,” Linhardt assured him, running his fingers absently up and down the length of him, enjoying the heat of him and the soft texture of his skin, there. “Tell me you want it,” he said. 

“Oh…” Caspar’s eyes met his, wide and wanting. “Oh, I do. Please, Lin, I do want it, okay? I do.” 

Warm, wonderful heat filled him, and he nodded back. “Good,” he said. “Oh, and you can pull my hair, if you want. I’d like that, too.” 

He lowered himself while Caspar sputtered a wordless, utterly incoherent response, settling down between his legs, on his belly, resting his hands on Caspar’s thighs. He started low, at the base of him, running his tongue shyly up the underside, half present and half far off into the past, thinking of all the times he’d thought about doing this exact thing to this exact man throughout the years. Hah. Goddess above, they really _had_ wasted a lot of time.

Caspar’s sputtering melted into a low, long, gratified moan, and Linhardt let the sound of it soak into him, bolstering him, urging him onward. He licked another several stripes up his length, base to tip, head bobbing, and then he looked up, met Caspar’s eyes, and took him carefully into his mouth. He had the distinct joy of watching Caspar’s mouth fall open, his jaw going slack and his eyes unfocused with pleasure -- ah, and the moan that fell out of him, then -- it was anything but discreet! 

“_Oh_,” Caspar gasped, on the heels of that loud, gratifying sound. “Oh, oh -- _shit_, Lin! Linhardt!” 

His shoulders shook, and he pulled off him, breathing hard, spit running down his chin. He licked his lips. “_Caspar_,” he warned.

“Huh? Don’t stop,” he begged. “Linhardt, please --” 

“_Quiet,_” he hissed, waving vaguely toward the front of the tent. Understanding dawned in those pretty blue eyes at last, and they widened further, and Caspar snapped his mouth closed and nodded his head furtively, too fast to be anything but funny. Linhardt choked back his laughter as best he could and eagerly returned to his task, sliding his lips back down over him, running his tongue in slow, lazy circles. Caspar was big enough that he had to be careful with his teeth, letting his jaw go loose and wide, breathing deep through his nose as he took him deeper. He closed his eyes, focusing on the feel of it, the heat of him against his tongue, the way he could press his tongue flat against the underside and feel his heartbeat pulsing within. 

Fingers in his hair brought him back to the present. He made a surprised sound around him, his eyes fluttering open. Caspar had a determined look about him, his brow furrowed, his jaw tight. Linhardt slid himself down as far as he could stand it, until the head of Caspar’s cock brushed the back of his throat, and then his throat spasmed around him and he swallowed hard, pulling up. Caspar let out a little hitching, gasping moan, squeezing his fingers in Linhardt’s hair, and -- oh, yes, he _did_ like that. He liked that very much. 

He nodded over him, bobbing his head up and down, and Caspar seemed to get the message, because his fingers clenched into fists and he pulled _hard_, hard enough that tears sprang to Linhardt’s eyes and a thrill ran down his spine and directly to his groin. If he _could_ have gotten hard again so soon, he surely would have. He moaned his pleasure around the cock in his mouth, and Caspar answered him in kind and pulled him forward, forcing him to take him deeper. 

This time, he was ready for it. Caspar’s cock pressed past the back of his tongue and filled his throat, and Linhardt squeezed his eyes shut and focused on holding himself loose and relaxed and open for him. Those tears that had blurred his vision before spilled out over his cheeks, and eventually, he slammed a desperate fist against one of Caspar’s thighs and pulled back, throat working, lungs burning, swallowing raggedly around him. 

Caspar let go of his hair, and Linhardt made an utterly humiliating, desperate sort of sound, shaking his head, pulling off of him entirely. “Don’t stop,” he hissed up at him. “Harder, Caspar, it’s all right.” 

“You -- Are you sure?” 

He dipped his chin in an eager nod and ran the flat of his tongue over the head of his cock. Caspar cried out again, high and eager and far, far too loud. Linhardt couldn’t be bothered to hush him again. He could taste him, now, salty and musky and really like nothing else he could think of. Caspar reached down and ran his fingers through Linhardt’s hair, gently, at first, smoothing through the tangles. Linhardt leaned into his touch, humming around him. 

“_Fuck_, Linhardt,” Caspar gasped. “Okay! I -- okay, I’m, I’m getting pretty close, I…” 

He pulled off. “It’s all right,” he said, voice hoarse. “I’ll just -- I don’t mind. Whenever you like.” He nodded, and then he went right back to it, head bobbing, tongue working, mind churning and buzzing, full of formless, disjointed thoughts. How much he liked this. How it might feel to have Caspar do this for him. How it was simultaneously exactly and nothing like he’d always imagined. How badly he wanted to feel Caspar inside of him, to hold him and kiss him and cling to his shoulders as he stretched and filled him so very full over and over and _over…_

His cock gave a little warning twitch, and he flared his nostrils and moaned around him, fresh heat blooming low in his belly and spreading all through him. 

“Linhardt,” Caspar cried, twisting Linhardt’s hair around his fingers, tightening his hands into fists. Ah, _yes_, Linhardt thought, closing his eyes, redoubling his efforts. “Lin, Linhardt, oh, shit,” Caspar gasped, twisting, pulling, hips rocking, holding Linhardt in place while he pushed little shallow thrusts up into his mouth. “Fuck!” he cried. “_Lin!_” 

He was ready for it, but it was still a surprise when Caspar erupted in his mouth. His seed hit the back of his throat and ran warm and thick over his tongue, and he swallowed reflexively, listening to Caspar gasp and cry out his pleasure as it peaked and crested and then slowly receded. It left Linhardt panting raggedly over him, spit and seed leaking from his lips, gripping Caspar’s thighs tight as he struggled to catch his breath. 

It was terribly messy, he thought, chest heaving, tongue flickering out to clean some of said mess off his lips. He didn’t mind the taste, he decided. There were better things, certainly, but there were also worse… and Caspar just looked so incredibly good in the aftermath, flat on his back, eyes closed, features slack with bliss. Linhardt sat up and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and halfway through this gesture Caspar’s eyes blinked open, and their gazes met. 

“Oh,” Caspar whispered, almost reverently. “That was… _amazing,_ you know that? Holy hell, Linhardt, you -- you’re incredible, you -- look so good, right now. Hey. Come here, will you?” He sat up, holding himself up on one elbow. He held his other arm out, inviting Linhardt to crawl back over him. 

“I’m sure you’re exaggerating,” he said, but in truth… well. How could he not be pleased? He smiled and answered the invitation immediately, wiping his mouth one more time before he went. Caspar slung his arm tight around him, pulling him close, and Linhardt buried his face happily in the crook of his neck. 

“Not exaggerating,” Caspar insisted, stroking his hair. Linhardt let out a happy little sigh. “Oh, no. _Definitely_ not. I, uh… all I can really say, is… wow, Lin. _Wow._” 

He hummed softly, nuzzling into his neck. “It _was_ an awful lot of work,” he conceded. “Very well. I accept your compliments, though I feel I must remind you -- don’t expect me to do that _every_ time, please. You’ll be terribly disappointed.” 

Caspar laughed, still running his fingers gently through Linhardt’s hair, lifting it off his shoulders and pulling the whole sweaty, tangled mess of it to one side. Linhardt shivered at the welcome sensation of cool air against the back of his neck. 

“Disappointed,” Caspar sighed, eventually, shaking his head. “Yeah, right. You could just lay there and do nothing at all, and I still wouldn’t be disappointed, because I’d be touching you. So there.” 

“Oh, good,” Linhardt yawned against him, grinning. “That sounds perfectly lovely. Let’s do that, next time.” 

“Mm. We’ll have to make sure we’ve got lots of pillows…” 

“Big ones,” Linhardt agreed. “Big, soft, fluffy pillows… mm. Caspar.” 

“Yeah?” 

“I’m very glad we didn’t die today.” 

“Ah… yeah,” he said, slowly. “Me, too. Duh.” 

“Don’t _duh_ me,” Linhardt complained, cracking another wide yawn. “Just… hm. Hold me, for awhile… just like this, all right?” 

“Yeah, all right,” Caspar said, though he still sounded suspiciously amused. Hard to tell without seeing his face. Lifting his own head to do so was entirely out of the question, however. There was simply not enough energy in him to spare. 

His final thoughts as he swirled down into sleep were that _someone_, surely, had overheard them. 

Oh well. 

*

They didn’t die in Enbarr. Others did. People Linhardt knew, and respected, and had even called friends, once. Caspar’s father fell, too -- not in battle, but to the executioner’s blade. They spent a somber night seated before the crumbling altar at the monastery cathedral together, exchanging memories of them all, good and bad and everything between, until they drifted off curled around each other in the pews. 

They didn’t die in ancient, underground Shambhala, either, though Caspar would complain later that Linhardt had done his level best to make it happen, fluttering about distracted as he was by all there was to _discover_, there. 

And they didn’t die in the shadow of Garreg Mach, in the end, though Linhardt would inform everyone who cared to listen that Caspar had been an absolute _idiot_, charging forward so eagerly to test his strength against the might of the Immaculate One herself. 

Having survived against all odds, they watched as their friends and allies each departed along their own paths, some returning to their families, others starting new ones altogether. 

Linhardt thought often of that day, nearly six years prior, now, when Caspar had taken him aside, shaking like a leaf, and told him that he was leaving, running far, far away before his father could arrive and send him home for good.

He wasn’t perfect, he knew. He’d made a lot of mistakes in the past, and he’d make plenty in the future, no doubt at all. But people had always called him clever, intelligent, gifted, even, and he liked to believe that meant that at the _very_ least, he could avoid making the same mistake twice. 

*

He woke one day slumped over his desk, as he often did, shoulders stiff, back aching, all around groggy and sore. He stretched and yawned and ran his fingers through his hair -- and blinked, a bolt of panic lancing through him. The desk was empty, the journal he’d been writing in gone. He jumped to his feet, sure he must be mistaken -- perhaps he’d dropped it under the desk, or left it on the bed, or something similar -- but when he turned to start the search, it up and ended before it ever truly began. 

Caspar was reading the damn thing, sitting cross legged on the bed, paging through it with his lips pursed and a little dip in his brow. 

“Excuse you,” Linhardt said. “That’s a private journal, you know.” 

Caspar waved at him, and turned the page. “Is not.” 

“You don’t get to decide that, Caspar. Besides, since when do you like to read?” 

He looked up, grinning wide, and -- oh, dear. 

It really seemed that no matter how many years passed them by, Caspar never stopped having the power to make his heart flutter like baby bird trapped in his ribcage, trying its very best to escape. Unfortunate, really. 

“Since you and I got to be the heroes in one!” Caspar held up the book. “This is really good, you know that? You should, I don’t know, maybe publish these.” He frowned. “Although, maybe take out all the stuff about, you know.” He ducked his head. Gestured nebulously. 

Linhardt smirked at him, leaning back in his chair, folding his arms up behind his head. “Now, I don’t know about that. People like a bit of romance,” he teased. “And again, those are private.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Caspar rolled his eyes. “I’m just saying, you should really think about it.” 

“Absolutely not,” Linhardt said. “That sounds like an _awful_ lot of work.”

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on twitter: [@landofsmthsmth](https://twitter.com/landofsmthsmth)


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